Black Flame
by EoEDaD
Summary: A dragon bent on summoning one of the most destructive demons known to mankind, a chaos mage roped into being his assistant, and the mage's fiancé — who also happens to be one of the dragon's most hated rivals. This simply cannot end well. PastFic.
1. The Lady and the Dragon

**A/N:** This story was written for the Bringing Back The Past contest at Romanticide forum. I don't own the Teen Titans-- namely, Malchior and Rorek, who are both owned by WB/DC Comics (can't quite figure that one out)-- nor do I own Kyrie, who is an OC created by Zoicytes-Shadow.

I'll try to have new chapters up at a fairly regular pace, but school has been a Room 101 recently, (See? I'm even quoting the stuff we have to read in English! It's evil, I tell you!) so I'm not quite sure as to how that will work out. I actually have everything written out, but I tend to be a rather obsessive editor, so I don't know how long it'll take.

Rating will possibly (probably) go up once I get to... around the ninth chapter, I think.

* * *

**Black Flame**

Malchior, the dread dragon of Nole, was in an exceptionally foul mood.

He was at that moment sulking in one of Nole's seediest taverns, nursing his tankard of ale and pointedly ignoring the many flirtatious looks he could feel being sent his way. Instead, his gaze was fixed on a white-haired wizard—more specifically, Rorek of Nole, perhaps the most renowned man in the kingdom of Alaëa, and Malchoir's most hated foe. The irony of the situation had occurred to Malchior many times before: an entire kingdom, and they both choose to live in the same small village, located more or less in the middle of nowhere. Admittedly, Malchior didn't so much live in the village itself as in a cave at the top of Nebulexeser Peak in the Cloudeater Mountains—though, by now, he had pretty much hollowed out the entire mountain, so the word "cave" didn't really do it justice. However, the reminder that he was ignominiously hiding out in his lair while Rorek paraded all over the kingdom, covering himself in glory no matter what he did, did nothing to improve Malchior's mood.

Rorek did not share Malchior's gloom. He was currently celebrating his engagement to a minor sorceress whose name escaped Malchior at the moment, and Malchior could feel the exuberance rolling off of him in waves.

_Arrogant bastard,_ he seethed, glaring at the back of Rorek's head with enough force to burn a hole through it. _Self-righteous cocky misbegotten son of a—_

His mental rant was cut off when Rorek, perhaps sensing the hostility in the air, turned and cast a curious glance at the corner where Malchior was fuming. Instantly, Malchior dropped his gaze to the dilapidated counter of the bar and called on the concealing charm that he had made prior to setting out. Rorek had never seen his human form—in fact, he probably didn't know that he even had one—but caution never harmed anyone. Malchior hated to admit it, even to himself, but picking a fight with Rorek in the middle of a human village would not be a particularly intelligent idea.

Rorek's eyes lingered on him for a few long seconds, sending Malchior into a state of near-panic, but then he shrugged and turned back to the crowd of mortals that he was currently regaling with the tale of how he had romanced Kyrie of the Black Flame. According to him, it had been an arduous task, and only after he had performed many acts of daring heroism had the fair maiden consented to accept his love—though Malchior heard a lady seated at one of the tables near his snigger to her friend, "It wasn't hard: Kyrie's been absolutely besotted with him for ages."

_Kyrie? That sounds familiar,_ Malchior mused, not daring to look up again for fear of being spotted. He couldn't remember where he had heard the name, which was an oddity of itself: he had existed for a millennium, and he could recall nearly every second of it. The only hazy bits were from when he had stayed in his human form for too long, but that had been four decades ago—he couldn't have met the wench then if she was still young enough to be getting married. It was puzzling…

A shout of joy interrupted his thoughts. Malchior risked a quick glance upward as he heard Rorek announce, "And the angel herself had deigned to visit us!" A girl with hair as white as Rorek's had appeared in the door of the tavern. She was pretty enough, Malchior admitted grudgingly, with a slim figure and porcelain-like skin. She was dressed oddly, in a black gown with white panels of fabric in the skirt, overlaid with a delicate coat of chain mail. Malchior thought he caught a glimpse of a sword's hilt beneath her black cloak, but then she had been swept up in Rorek's enthusiastic embrace and he could no longer see it.

From his vantage point in the corner, Malchior watched the girl's face flush with both pleasure and embarrassment as Rorek kissed her passionately in front of the avidly watching audience. Several seconds later, they broke apart to the sound of catcalls and much good-natured ribbing from the bar's patrons, though Malchior noticed that everyone was very careful to avoid saying anything discourteous about Kyrie in front of Rorek. _So, the wizard is defensive about his little pet,_ Malchior thought. _Sentimental fool._

Kyrie blushed again and tried to extricate herself from Rorek's arms as one of her friends made a comment about her wedding night. Rorek merely tightened his grip, laughing indulgently at her. "Come now, sweetheart," he said, "let's find somewhere away from these ill-mannered boors."

"Oh-ho now, not going to bother waiting for it to be official?" someone called from the back of the throng.

Rorek opened his mouth heatedly, but Kyrie beat him to it. Her eyes blazing, she said in a deceptively sweet voice, "If I ever discover who said that, I will personally ensure that every piece of metal you touch snarls, breaks, jams, or all three."

Malchior arched an eyebrow at the young woman's sudden mood change. _From a blushing bride-to-be to a fiery witch. Interesting._

Kyrie, apparently still bothered by the comment, told Rorek, "I was just going to inform you that a messenger from the king arrived yesterday. He sends his best wishes, and regrets that he won't be able to attend the ceremony."

Rorek nodded, then sighed. "I'm going to have to let go of you now, aren't I?" Malchior smirked in the shadows, thinking, _The idiot sounds like a child, and not a very bright one, at that._

Kyrie laughed softly, saying, "Yes, I have a spell I need to finish."

Groaning, the wizard released his fiancée, caressing her waist as though trying to entice her to stay in his arms. Kyrie laughed lightly, brushing her lips against his cheek and raising her left hand to display the jeweled ring that was on her fourth finger.

As she turned to leave, Malchior caught a glimpse of her eyes, and nearly jolted out of his seat. Some of his neighbors were giving him strange looks, but he was beyond caring. _Of course. One red eye, one gold eye. Kyrie of the Black Flame. The prophecy. How could I have forgotten?_

Later, in the safety of his cavern, Malchior scanned the copy he had made of the old crone's divination. He hadn't paid it a lot of attention at the time—he seemed to remember having imbibed his fair share of alcohol that night—but he later realized the value of the information that he had been given. Chaos mages were rare, and their talents were very specific, almost like anti-magic. They could confuse the barriers between worlds, allowing beings from other dimensions and spiritual planes to enter this realm. One would usually find a chaos mage studying necromancy, but they had all sorts of powers…

A slow, predatory grin spread across the dragon's face. Rorek's fiancée was about to meet her worst nightmare.

* * *

Reviews would be wonderful! 


	2. A Dangerous Mind

**A/N:** Many thanks to Tygre and Zoi for reviewing! And I don't own the song "Dangerous Mind" by Within Temptation-- I just happen to really like it and thought that the title would fit nicely.

* * *

**A Dangerous Mind**

The dragon released an echoing cry of pure rage, smashing his tail into the cauldron filled with black, shimmering liquid and watching as it exploded against the far side of the cavern.

Malchior changed back to his slightly less destructive human form a mere moment before his temper again got the better of his reason and he slammed his fist into the marble walls of his cave. When he withdrew it, there was a crater a foot wide in the flawless black stone.

He had been so _close_, dammit! He had _felt_ the power call to him, promising enough strength to destroy anyone who dared to cross his path—and then, in a second, it was gone, leaving behind a dragon so furious that his usually iron self-control had faltered in the face of his anger.

Directing a last baleful glare at the now-useless potion, Malchior grudgingly reached for his own power to repair the damage. While it might make him feel somewhat better to watch the scrying potion eat away at the rock of his home, it would doubtless create more frustration later on.

_The worst part, _Malchior thought as he cleaned up, _is that I know what I need, I just can't get it._ He was unused to not getting what he wanted, with the possible exception of Rorek's head on a pike. That was something that he had been wanting for quite some time now.

Lately, however, he had been feeling exceptionally unlucky. He had been close enough to touch the girl _five times_, and each time her exasperating fiancé had appeared out of nowhere, offering to walk her home or to wherever she was going. _Does the man never leave her side?_ Malchior wondered irritably. _And doesn't the wench get tired of it after a while?_

Apparently, no. He had been watching the chit after his attempts at physical abduction had failed, and his suspicion was confirmed—Rorek, curse him, was being very sure that no harm could befall his "love." (Malchior had wanted to retch when he first heard the awful word fall from the hypocritical wizard's lips, but refrained out of fear for the crystal that he had been using to scry—dragons' bodily fluids are extremely caustic.)

For a brief second, Malchior allowed the incongruity of the situation to sink in. His worst enemy's most treasured possession—of _course_ it would be her power that he needed. _Why not? It's not like life was ever fair to me… or that I deserved fairness, for that matter._

Scowling at his lapse into self-pity, Malchior stalked over to a seemingly ordinary section of wall. He had discovered this cave many centuries ago, and as the years passed, he had managed not only to hollow out a space large enough to accommodate even his full dragon size but to add a convenient array of hidden tunnels and traps. He didn't think that any of his enemies knew about this place, but taking unnecessary risks was never a part of Malchior's psyche—or, at least it wasn't unless Rorek was involved.

The smooth patch of marble that was currently occupying Malchior's attention, however, had the potential to eliminate the exasperating wizard at last. Calling on his magic, the dragon slowly removed a block of black stone from the side of the cavern and examined the back of it. Carefully placing his palm against the polished surface, he shut his eyes and felt the spell that he had invested in the stone reach into him, molding itself around his mind and assuring itself that it was truly Malchior who was trying to open the vault.

Slowly, the black cube began to glow red. It rose into the air and started to pull apart at a previously invisible seam through the center.

When the two had completely separated, a tiny vial rested was floating between them. It was nearly empty: only a few grains of the crystalline powder remained, an almost imperceptible dusting along the curve of the glass. Malchior had stolen the container out of sheer curiosity from a rather irritating pixie several decades ago. At the time, he had no idea as to the power of the object that he had appropriated (one of the few instances in his very long existence where he wondered if perhaps Tyche **1** didn't hate him, after all).

He delicately plucked the diminutive bottle from the place where it was hovering in the air. He shook out the last few grains of powder onto a flat rock, creating a tiny heap that glittered even in the near-lightlessness of his cave.

Carefully, he traced his finger in a circle around the sparkling particles, leaving a softly glowing red trail behind it. When the circuit was complete, he stepped back and concentrated on the crystals.

For a few seconds, nothing happened and Malchior began to wonder if the stories of the miraculous dust had only been myths. Before he could start to doubt himself too harshly, however, the dim twinkle of the powder intensified into a blinding burst of light.

Malchior shielded his eyes instinctively, the sheer force of the glare rendering his hand translucent. He could see the outline of the bones and veins in his hand, the light piercing through both them and his eyelids.

He waited until the light dimmed, just slightly, but still enough for him to make out the faint silhouette of a dark figure rising from the lustrous powder.

The newly summoned demon was writhing in agony, curled into the fetal position and hunching over itself in a way that no human ever could. Malchior could see its misshapen face twisted into a hideous mask of torture, its mouth open in a long, silent scream.

He waited dispassionately, counting in his head. After the demon's hide had visibly started smoking, he raised his hand and intoned, "Tenebrea Exed Iubar."

The radiance flickered, fading to a soft glow and then dying out completely. All the candles in the room were extinguished as well. In the darkness, the demon stood, unfolding its limbs clumsily at first. Idly, Malchior watched, wondering why all the incantations to summon lesser demons involved light. Admittedly, this particular spell had been created by pixies—notorious for their hatred of all things dark, and who had probably set out with the intention of killing anything they managed to conjure. However, he had never seen a summoning ritual that didn't involve some kind of light. _Ironic._

As he mused, the being's movements became steadily more fluid, until a tall shadow stood before Malchior. Quietly but clearly, he said, "Dietio Viva," calling on the life-debt that the demon owed him. A more intelligent being would have pointed out that, being the one who put it in danger in the first place, he had no power over them; however, this one didn't object, and the magic wove around them.

He was unsurprised when the demon didn't protest: there were only about five in all the worlds that were even truly sentient, much less capable of speech. He opened his mouth again to order the now all-but-enslaved shadow to bring him the girl (though it wounded his pride sorely to be forced to use a demon's life debt on a woman), but then he paused. Demons—even ones as pathetic as this—were legendary for their powers. Did he really want to use this opportunity to pursue what was essentially a madman's scheme, a child's grasp at something far beyond his reach?

An image of Rorek's face taunting him at their last battle appeared before Malchior's eyes_. Yes. I want that wizard broken beyond repair, I want him to see everything he loves die and be helpless to prevent it._

"Bring me Kyrie of the Black Flame."

* * *

**1** Tyche was the Greek goddess of luck and prosperity.

So... love, hate?


	3. Into the Dragon's Lair

**A/N:** Erm. I'm not quite convinced that this is as good as it could be (yes, yes, I'm a perfectionist), but I can't bring myself to care. I... hate... homework. Especially Civics homework.

Anyways, complaining over-- Chapter 3!

* * *

**Into the Dragon's Lair**

After he delivered the order and the demon disappeared, Malchior stepped back into a shadowy corner to await the girl's arrival.

It was not a long vigil.

Within a few minutes, he watched as a shadow slid into the cave and deposited an unconscious girl with long white hair on the floor. As the darkness dissipated, her eyelids cracked apart and then flew open, confirming her identity with their distinctive color. Instantly she was on her feet, sliding back into a fighter's crouch and pulling a beautifully wrought sword from its sheath with practiced ease. Malchior watched silently as she pivoted, her eyes struggling to pierce the darkness.

"Hello?" she called softly, as though she wasn't quite sure whether she really wanted to be heard or not.

Silence followed.

"Anyone?"

Still no reply.

Malchior could see her try to reason out the situation, and decided that he would wait another few minutes before revealing himself. _This could be quite entertaining._

Suddenly, Kyrie whirled around to face the immovable block of stone that was the cave's entrance and released a loud, ear-splitting scream. Before he could help himself, Malchior turned as well, to see what had frightened her.

There was nothing there, and realization struck at the same time that he felt the cold steel press into his throat. _Damn her!_

"Don't move," the girl hissed threateningly. The edge of the sword bit into his neck as Malchior silently cursed his own stupidity to hell and back.

"Who are you? And don't bother lying," she whispered. His mind racing, Malchior opened his mouth to do just that, and then froze. He could sense a truth spell emanating from her, and the power behind it worried him. As far as he had been aware, Rorek's fiancée was a _minor_ sorceress, a _chaos_ sorceress—where had she learned a truth spell, anyways, never mind actually using it? He was confident that he could more than match her in his dragon form, but as a human with her sword at his throat, he didn't like his chances.

Malchior flinched involuntarily as the blade pressed deeper, cutting open his skin. He could feel the blood flowing over the blade and dripping down his collarbone. "Your name._ Now._"

"Malchior of Nole!"

Kyrie gasped, faltering slightly—just for a second, but long enough for Malchior to twist out of her grasp. Spinning around to face her, he transformed.

She stared at the black-and-purple dragon that had materialized in front of her, shocked into defenselessness. "You… you… why would…" she whispered, more to herself than to Malchior. "Rorek… he warned me… and you…" she trailed off, a sudden fire coming into her eyes. "You almost killed him!"

Kyrie leaped at Malchior, who was so taken aback by the move that it was only at the last moment that he evaded her blade. _She's gone mad!_ he thought in amazement.. Before she could call on her magic to aid her attacks—and he didn't want to discover what spells she could come up with in her current frame of mind—he had plucked the sword from her grasp and wrapped a claw around her waist. Hoisting her into the air, he rumbled, "You aren't very bright, are you?"

"You tried to kill him!"

_What is wrong with this woman? _"Yes. And?"

"He was bloody, and burnt, and the healer was gone so I had to try and keep him alive until she could come back, and I can't heal, not at all, and he almost died—and YOU DID IT!"

Malchior regarded her in pure exasperation. "And so you're going to continue in your pathetic efforts to try to kill me. You are aware that he was also trying to slay _me_?"

"I don't care!"

"And you are aware that you are in no position to do anything about it?"

Kyrie stopped thrashing and froze, as though just then realizing how easy it would be for the dragon to end her life. "What do you want of me?" she asked in an almost-terrified whisper, not really expecting an answer.

But Malchior smiled a dragon's smile, revealing a mouthful of serrated fangs. "You'll see."

With that vague and rather ominous reply, Kyrie found herself unceremoniously tossed into a dark corner. The dragon took a step back, and drew in a long breath. She wanted to scream, to run, to do anything but sit there and let him kill her—but she couldn't. Couldn't do anything but watch, petrified, and hope that it wouldn't hurt for too long.

However, when Malchior flamed, she found herself instead surrounded by a towering wall of fire. Over the roar of the blaze, she heard him say, "Dragonfire can have interesting properties, little sorceress. I would suggest that you don't get too close."

A loud flapping noise announced his departure, and Kyrie sank to the floor, staring at the inferno. Dragonfire… what had Rorek said? _I pray you never have to encounter the stuff: it's a mage's nightmare. Even the slightest burn, and the victim dies, slowly and torturously—as if the vile beasts needed another way to inflict pain!_

Kyrie gave a low, despairing moan as the full gravity of her situation sunk in. Her magic was a waste of time—why she had been granted such _useless_ powers, she would never understand: the only reason she could perform even a truth spell was that she had been working on it after she spoke to Rorek at the tavern—and she was quite effectively trapped in the lair of her beloved's worst enemy. She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, hiding her face as tears started to streak down her cheeks. _I'm going to die.  
_

* * *

A little angst never hurt anything, right? Or, at least, not too many things. I guess._  
_

_REVIEW! _Um... please? Pretty-pretty-please-because-it-will-make-the-next-chapter-even-better?


	4. Plans Revealed

**A/N:** Well, if Zoi took the time to review an extra chapter just to keep me going, who am I not to do so? Besides, I was bored. And I rather like this chapter, if I do say so myself.

* * *

**Plans Revealed**

Hours later, dragon-Malchior returned, clutching a stolen meat pie in his talons and wearing a frighteningly wide smile. According to village rumors, a certain wizard was going out of his _mind_ with worry for his mysteriously missing fiancée. Why, if he had known how amusing the results would be, he would have kidnapped the chit ages ago. Not only was she indirectly providing Rorek as a source of vast entertainment, but she had an amazing amount of power within her, and was totally unaware of the fact. This would make his work much easier, especially if he could manage to tap that hidden reserve for his own purposes.

_Of course, the girl will fight me at every turn,_ Malchior thought as he alighted on a barely visible ledge. _She was practically foaming at the mouth when she realized who I was—that blasted wizard's probably told her all manner of lies, damn him. I need her cooperation for this to work, and she's probably plotting how to kill me at this very moment._ As Malchior considered this fact, he changed back to his human form and stepped through the complex illusion he had created to disguise the cave's entrance. Only he and those whom he admitted could pass through.

Grudgingly, he admitted to himself as he stalked down a long tunnel carrying the food, "She has spirit, I'll give the wench that much, but—"

His words died in his throat as he caught sight of the flames still blazing in the corner. Malchior didn't know what had prompted him to do that to the girl—he had only intended to frighten her a little, not to actually put her life in danger. For all her irritating qualities, he had no real quarrel with her. It wasn't her fault that she had horrendous taste in men, and he had reconsidered the part of his plan that actually involved killing her. When the power that he hoped for was his, he was sure he could come up with something that didn't involve too much collateral damage.

At a sharp command from him, the fire died down. Placing the pie out of harm's way, Malchior braced himself for a sudden attack, summoning a magical shield in case she had discovered the true extent of her powers while he was away: unlikely, true, but excess amounts of stress had been known to trigger previously unrevealed strengths.

He needn't have worried—though he might have preferred a furious assault to Kyrie's current appearance.

She was curled into a limp ball, her face buried in her arms. As Malchior watched, unable to believe that this was the same girl as the furious spitfire of a mere three hours ago, she looked up.

He felt an uncharacteristic pang of guilt at her tearstained face. But when her eyes caught his, he almost flinched with sympathy. Her expression was hopeless, as though she was already dead and was merely waiting for her heart to stop beating. He knew the feeling all too well, and the knowledge that he had been the cause of it in someone else caused a wave of self-loathing to hit him.

Trying to hide his moment of weakness, he said noncommittally, "That looks like a distinctly uncomfortable position. Perhaps you would prefer a chair?" He could conjure one easily enough, after all.

Kyrie just stared at him with blank eyes before lowering her head again.

Malchior tried again. "If you cannot control your emotions better than this, I am afraid that I have no use for you." Despite the words, it was far from a threat—actually, the tone was much closer to pleading than he was happy with.

She tensed, and then shrugged half-heartedly. Her voice muffled by her arms and hoarse from sobbing, she said dully, "Then kill me. Might as well be sooner rather than later, right?"

"No!" They both flinched at the vehemence in Malchior's tone. In a slightly more level voice, he repeated, "No. I don't kill innocents, not even if I knew it would drive my worst enemy mad with grief. No."

Kyrie stared at him, surprised out of her resignation. "What? But… but Rorek—"

"Is a conceited bastard who has hated me since the moment he first laid eyes on me, by virtue of the simple fact of what I am," Malchior snapped, he crimson eyes dark with rage.

Kyrie was silent, not wanting to provoke him further, but her eyes were eloquent in their skepticism.

He let out an exasperated huff and said in a voice dripping bitterness and sarcasm, "Of _course_, how could I forget? The almighty sorcerer of Nole is never in the wrong, is never unjust, has never done something that a lesser being would be burned at stake for, had never—"

"Stop it!" Kyrie broke into his vitriolic monologue. "He isn't perfect, he has done wrong, but I—I love him. And you have no right, no right at all, to slander him so! Are _you _faultless?"

Now it was Malchior's turn to stare. _Stupid girl… but she's right, in a way._ He didn't agree with her way of phrasing it, but he could get a vague idea of what she was struggling to say, and the truth of it disturbed him. Clamping down on his thoughts, he forced his face into a sneer. "Brave words from a prisoner."

Kyrie's spirit seemed to die a little when he said that. Mentally, Malchior kicked himself. But she rallied, saying with a strange half-smile, "I was prepared to die in the most torturous way you could imagine. What worse could you do to me?"

"Not to you—with you," Malchior said, thinking of the spell. He was sure that she would see it as dark magic, and would be less than appreciative of being forced to assist in such an endeavor.

Kyrie's thoughts, however, were following completely different lines. Before Malchior knew what was happening, she had pulled her sword out of nowhere and was swinging it at him.

Barely dodging the steel, he yelled, "Hey! What in the name of all the gods—" He was cut off by another attack. Jerking to the side, he reached out and grabbed her sword wrist, only to find that she had drawn a hidden dagger with her free hand and was now menacing him with it.

Trembling with fury, she hissed, "I would _rather _die than let you so much as touch me, you disgusting worm!"

"What?" _Touch her? Why would I—oh, no. _"Not that!" He could feel the blood creeping into his face—he hadn't even known that he was capable of blushing, much less under such decisively less-than-amusing circumstances.

Kyrie was still shaking with anger and disgust, plainly unconvinced by his statement. He repeated, "I didn't mean that I would… do that to you."

She eyed him suspiciously. "Then, pray tell, what _did_ you mean?"

He sucked in a deep breath, anticipating a violent reaction to what he was going to say. "Put the sword down, and I'll tell you." It was probably a bad idea to have her holding a potentially lethal weapon in any case, but even more so now.

At her skeptical look, he rolled his eyes and placed two fingers on his forehead, pressing the other hand to the inside of his wrist. "I swear by my life that if you put the sword down I will tell you what I intend to do—and," he threw in for good measure, "I swear that my intentions do not include killing you, causing you undue harm, and _certainly_ not sleeping with you." A red glow confirmed his vow. It was a pity that he had been so broad with his language, now that he thought about it: but then, "undue" could be construed in a variety of ways, and he had already decided against killing the girl.

Kyrie looked at him for a moment more, then slowly lowered the sword to the ground. "There. Now explain."

Malchior bristled at the order, but decided that clearing up the misunderstanding was more important that his pride. Gods knew he didn't want Rorek's fiancée and his prisoner thinking he desired her: she was pretty enough, but not to his taste. He just hoped she didn't misinterpret what he was about to say. "I require your assistance in… a spell."

Kyrie looked puzzled. "_My_ assistance? But I'm just—" Her eyes narrowed. "If you say necromancy, I will make you wish that you had never been born. Raising the dead is the worst kind of—"

"Will you please listen to me before you arrive at such farfetched conclusions? No, it's not necromancy: it's a demon summoning. Trigon the Terrible. And I do _not_ appreciate being threatened, much less by an impudent chit less than a tenth of my size."

Kyrie gasped in pure, unadulterated shock. Looking as though she was in danger of forgetting how to breathe, she choked out, "Trigon—the—Terrible?"

* * *

::grins:: Aw, is wittle Malchior embarrassed? Oh, I have too much fun torturing my characters... far too much fun... 


	5. Let the Games Begin

**A/N:** Short little chapter, I know. I'm very, very sorry, and I'll see if I can manage to get another chapter up tonight, too.

* * *

**Let The Games Begin**

"Trigon—the—Terrible?" Kyrie's voice rose uncontrollably. "You want to summon _Trigon?_ Are you _mad?_ Do you have any _idea—_"

She cut herself off. "No," she said in a deceptively calm tone, her eyes just _daring_ Malchior to argue with her. "No. I will not aid you in this—this madness. No."

He gritted his teeth. This wasn't going to be pretty. "You will, actually."

Kyrie's eyes flashed dangerously. "There is no threat that you can make—"

"Why would I need to threaten you? It's not as though I require your active cooperation," Malchior lied.

"But then why…"

He grinned. It was very much a less than reassuring expression. "I doubt that the wizard has taught you how to guard your mind properly. All I need to do is tap your power for a moment—just long enough to confuse the barricades between the worlds." His voice dropped into an oozing sort of near-sympathy as he continued to lie through his teeth. "You really can't stop me."

_There._ He had delivered his line, and now all he could do was wait and watch her reaction. He hoped she caught the deliberate flaw he had left in his supposed plan, because otherwise he had no idea what she would do. _Please be intelligent, please be intelligent,_ Malchior pleaded in his mind.

Sadly, Kyrie disappointed him. She stared at him for a long moment, absorbing his words, then slowly shifted her gaze to the dagger that she held in her hands. "Me… it's me that you need," she murmured, more to herself than Malchior. Then, without any warning, she reversed the blade and brought it to rest over her heart, digging between the layers of chain mail until only a thin layer of cloth separated her stiletto from her life.

Malchior instinctively reached out with his magic to dull the edge on the metal, only to be met with one of the strongest magical shields that he'd ever encountered. _Dammit, that girl is too powerful for her own good,_ Malchior thought, unable to do anything but watch with a sort of horrified fascination and pray to whatever god would listen that he hadn't driven the girl to take her own life.

One second passed, then another. Kyrie still didn't move, and Malchior didn't dare to. The silence and the stillness seemed to stretch into eternity as Kyrie struggled with herself.

Malchior could pinpoint the exact moment when the loophole in his plan presented itself to Kyrie. Her eyes, distinctive under any circumstances but even more so when shimmering with defiance, flew wide in a flash of comprehension. She suppressed it instantly, though, and allowed the knife to drop from her hand as though she couldn't bring herself to use it.

He silently applauded her acting abilities as she looked up, despair so evident in her eyes that had he not seen the telltale glint of triumph on her face a few seconds ago, he might have believed she had really given up.

"Very well," she said, her voice hitting the perfect mix of helplessness and impotent anger, breaking ever-so-slightly as she continued, "I'll help you."

Malchior didn't need to hide his grin as he nodded in response to her words. _Let the games begin._

* * *

Why am I incapable of writing something without it getting angsty? Why?

Anyways... review!


	6. A Surprising Favor

**A/N:** It's quite nice having this all written out beforehand, actually. Here you all go!

* * *

**A Surprising Favor**

Kyrie glared down at the faintly glowing runes on the floor. Art had never been her strongest point, truthfully, though she would rather die than ask the dragon for help. Not that she thought he'd hurt her, especially after the oath; but she was trying to work as much of her own essence into this entire mess as she could, and his help would definitely not be conducive to that goal.

She didn't know how much effort it would take on her part to be able to cancel the summoning, especially if Malchior was providing most of the power, but a joint ritual was usually described as being equally reliant on each of the participants. So she could, in theory, be able to stop Trigon from materializing, even when the spell had already been set in motion. Of course, that involved the ritual actually going properly in the first place.

Biting back a groan, Kyrie returned to her current task: marking the inner circle of protection around the center of the cave. It had been disconcerting to discover how little Malchior knew about this spell—and even more frightening was the fact that he had openly admitted it.

As she drew in a series of runes for strength, she let her thoughts drift back to the dragon. _He seems so…empty,_ she thought sadly, feeling an almost maternal urge to comfort Malchior (who would doubtless have been horrified by such attentions). She knew her fury over Rorek's long-ago injuries was irrational, stemming more from her fear that _she_ would fail her not-yet fiancé than from Malchior's actions.

_Rorek._ Kyrie sighed, fighting back tears as she thought of her beloved. She didn't believe that Malchior was as evil as Rorek had claimed, but she still missed Rorek as though he was a part of her own being. "I love you," she whispered, feeling a drop of liquid trail down her cheek despite all her efforts to the contrary.

She loved him—but would he still love her? After all, she—gods, she was collaborating with his worst enemy to summon the most evil demon known to this world. Rorek would _hate_ her after this, and no one would blame him.

"Can you not even copy a string of runes properly?" an amused voice asked from behind her.

Kyrie released an undignified squeal, spinning around to face Malchior. "Don't _do_ that!" she demanded breathlessly. "You scared the wits out of me!"

Malchior just rolled his eyes and stepped around the irate sorceress, reading the symbols out loud as he looked at the floor. "Strength, strength, strength, strength, wizard, love—pain?" He sounded surprised.

Turning back, Malchior scrutinized Kyrie's face, taking in the signs of tears. An almost regretful look crossed his face before he turned away, saying, "Whatever you see in that supercilious—ah, it is no matter of mine." Still not looking at her, he added hesitantly, "Much as I loathe the idea of granting the least succor to that gods-cursed _fool_—" Kyrie had the sense to hold her tongue "—if it is so very distressing to you, I might… be able to arrange a way for you to… visit him. Only for a bit, and you'd have to be bespelled to make sure you came back, but—what _now?_"

Kyrie had started weeping in earnest again. Between sobs, she choked out, "H-he won't w-want me!"

Malchior, nonplussed, regarded the distraught girl in silence. Eventually, he ventured, "Er… please stop crying?" Sobbing women were definitely not his forte. "By 'he,' you mean the wizard?"

Kyrie nodded miserably, though she had managed to stem the tears somewhat. "Rorek."

_Okay, just take this one step at a time… and hope that she doesn't start again… _"And you think that he, ah, 'won't want you'—"

"He'll hate me!"

"Right. Um… why would that be?"

Kyrie gave an audible sniff. "Because I'm helping _you_, and on—with—"

"With dark magic?" Malchior finished questioningly. She nodded again, looking at him as though expecting the agreement that would crush her completely.

What she was not expecting was for Malchior to start laughing, only stopping when she pulled herself out of her desolation long enough to send an icy glare at him. "You honestly believe that that lovesick half-wit is capable of thinking of you as anything less than perfection incarnate?"

Kyrie's jaw dropped—whether from his words or from the mere fact that he was being, in a roundabout way, nice, Malchior didn't know. Her voice quavered as she asked, "You—you don't think he'll hate me?"

Malchior snorted. "The day that fool hates you is the day he proposes marriage to _me_." He paused, then continued thoughtfully, "Of course, he'll probably loathe me more than ever for 'corrupting' you or some such nonsense—as if I ever could!—but be angry with _you_? I don't think he knows how." There was another pause, and he added, "So, now that we've established the glaringly obvious, would you be better able to concentrate after a visit to your wizard?"

Kyrie's eyes threatened to pop out of her skull entirely during the course of this remarkable monologue. "You're sure—you're alright? You haven't been… inhaling potion fumes, or some such thing? I'm very grateful and all, but—"

The faintest trace of amusement was in his voice as he interrupted, "While I'm touched by your concern, I really would not like to be forced to repeat my offer thrice over. Will you or won't you?"

"Yes," she said, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Yes, of course I will. Oh, thank you, thank you so much!" she exclaimed suddenly, flinging her arms around Malchior's neck.

Every muscle in his body went rigid, and he coughed pointedly. Kyrie hurriedly pulled back, her face a brilliant shade of scarlet. She mumbled, "Sorry about that… a bit too happy…"

"A bit?" Malcior inquired sardonically. Shaking his head in exasperation and muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "bloody emotional women," he ordered, "Turn around."

As Kyrie did so, he told her, "This won't work if you fight me. All I'm going to do is place a variation of the truth spell you used yourself on you. It'll probably be painful, but you need to concentrate solely on granting my access to your mind."

She hesitated, and then nodded. Inwardly, Malchior wondered at her trust—he hadn't done anything to earn it. "But… couldn't you just get in anyways?"

_Damn. It. All._ "Er… yes, but… but it would require more strength than I am willing to expend at this point," he lied as he moved her hair to the side, noting with interest the fringe of black along the tips of her previously purely white hair. Perhaps its appearance reflected the magical aura of those surrounding her?

Trying to divert her attention from what was, in all honesty, an atrocious excuse for deceit—_when_ had he become such an awful liar?—he touched the back of her neck with two fingers, gently probing her mind at the same time. Closing his eyes, he murmured, "Angoliga Subenan."

"Ow!" Kyrie shrieked, jerking away from his hand. "That _hurt!_"

Malchior shrugged.

She drew in a breath, preparing to berate him, he was sure, but then she expelled it in a long sigh. "So… that's all?"

"Yes. You may go."

Kyrie grinned happily, turning away as if to leave.

She paused, then sheepishly looked back. "Uh…"

Fighting back a grin, Malchoir replied innocently (or, at least, non-overtly-mockingly), "Why, you were so eager to find your wizard? What happened?"

"Erm, which way is out?"

"Well, as a rule I simply pass through the stone, but I suppose it won't allow you to do that…"

"Malchior," Kyrie said warningly.

He laughed. "I'll transport you to the village's edge."

She cast him a quick glance at the very uncharacteristic humor, but fell in with his mood. Grinning, she teased, "Well, it would undoubtedly be more convenient to actually be sent to the village itself, but since you're obviously having difficulties with the wards, I suppose that will do." The instant she finished, she winced, clearly wondering if she had crossed an invisible line with her taunt.

Malchior grimaced, but otherwise ignored the comment—to her evident relief. Opening a portal in the air, he stepped back and bowed mockingly. "Milady."

Kyrie walked to the edge but hesitated, asking, "Aren't portals dark ma—"

"Oh, for the love of all the gods!" Malchior groaned, his newfound patience exhausted. Quickly, he stepped forward and shoved Kyrie through the glimmering circle, pretending not to hear her surprised squeak as she fell through space.

_That will be an interesting landing,_ he thought, remembering the glimpse he had caught of her destination. _Though I very much doubt that either of them will mind._

* * *

As always... review._  
_


	7. Troubled Meeting

**A/N:** ::winces:: Cute? Umm... if you say so... not quite what I was going for, but I'll take it.

* * *

**Troubled Meeting**

Kyrie landed in a tangle of limbs, seeing only a flash of white and blue directly under her before she impacted.

Whatever she had landed on collapsed beneath her weight. She thought she heard a grunt, but she wasn't sure, especially since she had managed to hit her head on the ground. Not that she could actually remember hitting it, or feel any pain or anything; but the surface that her head was now lying on seemed to rise and fall every few seconds, and she was quite certain that _that_ was impossible. Unless, of course, she had landed on a person… _damn._

"Oh, gods," she moaned as she started to stand, "if this is that dragon's idea of a joke, I am going to murder him." She managed to reach her feet with only a bit of a wobble. Kyrie started to turn to apologize to whatever poor villager she had crushed, trying to think of a plausible reason that the missing fiancée of the town's favorite mage would suddenly appear from the sky.

"Kyrie?" a familiar voice asked.

She gasped, spinning around so quickly that her recently traumatized head started to spin as well. The slight nausea was disregarded, though, and Kyrie threw herself at Rorek, knocking them both back onto the ground with her enthusiasm. His lips covered her in a desperate kiss, dispelling any worries on her part and rendering them both very much incapable of coherent thought.

When they finally broke apart, Rorek stood, pulling Kyrie up with him and holding her to his chest. He seemed content to simply embrace her, and they would have stayed that way for a long moment had not Malchior (monitoring Kyrie's movements in his scrying crystal) grown impatient.

She twitched as a small wave of pain emanated from the base of her neck. Malchior's voice trailed lightly across her consciousness, saying dryly, _I seemed to be laboring under the delusion that you actually wanted to _speak_ to your fiancé. You've satisfied your lust, I do hope—because I will be damned before I watch any more of that repulsiveness—and if that was all that you wished to do, I believe the ritual can be started._

Irrationally enough, Kyrie's first reaction was embarrassment: she had always been uncomfortable with showing physical affection in front of others. Instinctively, she pulled away from Rorek to a more conventional distance, feeling her cheeks burn scarlet at the thought that someone had watched them kissing.

He let her go, hurt and confusion touching his eyes. "Love? Is something wrong? Did I—is that why you left? Was I… did you feel uncomfortable? I could—"

"No!" Kyrie hastened to reassure him, mentally consigning Malchior to the ninth ring of hell for putting her in this position. "Rorek, I_ didn't_ leave—not intentionally," she explained. "I was… kidnapped, at first."

Rorek's eyes widened, and he pulled Kyrie back against him. "Kidnapped—what do you mean, 'at first'? Why didn't I sense the wards being broken? Are you well? They didn't hurt you?" His voice lowered to a deep growl. "_Who_ did this?"

Kyrie sighed, anticipating an unpleasant reaction to what she was going to say. "Rorek, love, I want you to promise that you'll let me finish _before_ you go running off to kill him, for my sake. Do you?"

"Him?" Rorek asked in a dangerous tone.

"Rorek!"

He gave in with bad grace. "If you insist—but I _will_ slay them after you have told your tale."

_I hope not—I'm not sure either of us would survive._ "It's—well," Kyrie started, then decided that there really was no way to soften the blow. "Malchior."

That single word had a disturbingly powerful effect on the wizard. All color drained from his face, and his hand flew to the hilt of his sword. He started to draw the weapon, and Kyrie could see that he was already contemplating how best to draw Malchior into battle, regardless of his promise to her.

"Don't!" she exclaimed, putting her hand over his and arresting the motion. She didn't know what would happen if Rorek went out to confront the dragon, but she had a sudden feeling that the results would be disastrous for them both. "Let me finish!"

"He hasn't hurt me, and he swore on his life not to do so—not unless it was needed, and it hasn't happened yet," she continued, choosing not to mention the minor discomfort she had already endured. _It's relatively small—he could have been much worse_, she told herself. "I believe him, all he needs me for is one spell, he'll let me go after that, so _please_ don't—"

"He _will_ let you go?"

"Yes, yes, I think—no, I _know_ that—"

"Future tense?"

Kyrie fell silent.

Rorek, with an obvious effort to make his voice gentle, said, "Kyrie, I…" He trailed off, and then tried again. "Sweetheart, surely there's no need—I know I failed you before, but this time—"

Now it was Kyrie's turn to cut him off. "Never say that!" she cried, eyes blazing with passion. "You did _not_ fail me—for one, it was a demon that took me, and there is no mortal thing on Earth that could have stopped it—but moreover, I am capable of protecting myself! You cannot hold yourself responsible for everything that happens to me!" She paused for breath, and continued more calmly, "I do have to go back. I love you. I hope—it shouldn't be too long before it's done."

She looked away from Rorek's eyes, starting at the ground ashamedly. "I hope you won't hate me when you know what I've done," she whispered.

Rorek shook his head and drew her back into his arms. "Not a chance," he stated with conviction, before leaning down and kissing her tenderly.

Kyrie refused to be comforted. "Love, you don't understand—he's—_I'm_ going to summ—ah!"

She emitted a sharp cry of pain and clutched the back of her neck. Malchior's voice, almost bored, brushed across her mind. _I'd prefer that your wizard not know exactly what is going on. The temptation to…_meddle_ might prove to be too much for him. Don't try and tell him again, please—I might have to hurt you next time, and despite the fun I would take in forcing him to watch you writhe, I'd rather have you come out of this undamaged._

_THEN WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS???_ Kyrie screamed mentally, feeling her knees give out below her and involuntarily closing her eyes. As if from a distance, she heard Rorek's voice growing distraught and strong arms wrapping around her, though she was strangely divorced from the sensation. "Kyrie! Kyrie, look at me!"

_That's odd, _Kyrie thought dispassionately as she hovered on the edge of unconsciousness, _usually I'm melting into him, but now it's like I can't stand his touch. Quite strange. Perhaps… no, it's only a part of me that's cringing in revulsion right now. And I don' t seem to be getting stronger… oh, no. He wouldn't._

All trace of impartiality vanished from Kyrie's thoughts. _I'll kill him._

She meant it. Her eyes snapped open, and Rorek instinctively flinched back from the burning rage in them, though he retained enough nerve to ask anxiously, "Love? Kyrie, heart, what's wr—"

"That base-born son of a misbegotten she-demon," Kyrie growled. "How _dare_ he use my powers without my consent? How _dare_ he try to misuse what is mine to control?"

Rorek gulped. He had seen Kyrie this angry only once, right before she cursed a mage who had tried to attack her best friend into sheer oblivion. And even then, she hadn't been angry enough to insult the wizard's mother. His visceral reaction to such a situation was to run away—_fast_—and then come back to clean up the pieces later.

Then her words sunk in. "Your—your _power?_" he spluttered. "But… but…" _But that would require a voluntary bond. A voluntary one._ Binding spells of that nature were more common between lovers than anything else, and Rorek remembered Kyrie's words. _I was… kidnapped, at first._ At first. So, then, what had their relationship been later?

While Rorek was occupied with adding one and one and coming up with three, Kyrie was still seething. Her utter wrath was manifesting itself in her magic, and she was in no mood to contain it. Still cradled in Rorek's arms, her skin began to radiate a pure light, and she floated a hair above the ground. She was slightly hurt at the alacrity with which Rorek go of her, but then the thought occurred to her that this entire situation was Malchior's fault, and her rage doubled.

Kyrie continued to rise, feeling the immense power flow through her veins like the most addictive of drugs, just _begging_ to be used: and she knew exactly who she was going to take down.

"Malchior!" she screamed in a voice she barely recognized as her own. "Malchior, dragon of Nole!"

"Malchior!" Rorek faltered back another step as the incandescent girl rose even higher into the air. The glow of her newly discovered magic shimmered around her, partially veiling her from Rorek's sight.

Forced to look away from the brilliance, he glanced at the mountain where he assumed Malchior's lair to be, since it had so absorbed Kyrie's attention. He squinted slightly, shielding his eyes against the twin radiances of the setting sun and his fiancée. He would have sworn that the entire structure had just ­_moved_—but that was ridiculous. Impossible.

A thundering, confrontational sound echoed from Kyrie's lips. "Malchior, dragon of Nole!" The noise was deafening, and silence reigned over the entire area, birds cutting off mid-song. Rorek found himself craning his neck, searching the sky for the notorious fire-breather in the same fashion that he was sure every villager who heard Kyrie was. (Though he stopped the minute he realized what he was doing. He had his pride, even if he tended to forget it when Kyrie was around.)

Had Rorek not been listening quite so avidly, or had the sudden quiet been any less absolute, it is doubtful that he would have been able to hear the soft, sibilant hiss that answered Kyrie's resounding challenge.

"_Malchior is… otherwise occupied,_" the disembodied voice said. Rorek, bewildered, turned to look at Kyrie. She was still floating, but the light that surrounded her had dimmed enough for him to see the fearful expression on her face. _No,_ she mouthed, but the strange voice hadn't finished yet. "_And you, too, shall be unavailable—NOW!_"

For a split second, nothing happened, and Rorek hoped against hope that whatever Kyrie had become, it was strong enough to ward off the invisible creature with the voice that sounded like liquid malice.

Then came the scream.

A wordless, tortured shriek tore itself from Kyrie's throat as she plummeted to the ground. Rorek, rooted to the ground from pure shock, didn't think to move until she had nearly hit the earth. Lunging forward at the last possible second, he managed to catch the still-glowing figure just before she landed, both of them falling to the ground in a hopeless tangle of limbs and clothing for the second time in so many minutes.

It took a while for the dazed wizard to notice that Kyrie seemed to have frozen in place. "Rorek," she whispered. "Don't—don't… no! Get back!" She looked in horror at her hands, and Rorek saw that the glow was… well, it wasn't fading, exactly, but she was going from exuding light to being surrounded by a black aura that absorbed it. Before his appalled gaze, her eyes changed from their distinctive coloring to a flat black. "Fool of a wizard," she hissed in a voice that was eerily like that which he had heard just moments before, "you will be the first to die!"

Poor Rorek had been through too much by this point. "Huh? Kyr—"

"Silence, imbecile!" Kyrie—or whatever was in Kyrie's body—leaped at him, her nails growing impossibly long and sharp. He made a feeble, half-hearted attempt at dodging, and by some miracle, managed to maneuver them so that she was lying on top of him. Momentum propelled her head into his, and their lips accidentally brushed. It was for less than a tenth of a second, but when Kyrie's head pulled back automatically, Rorek saw a spark of… _something_ in her eyes. Deciding that he had no other options, he reached up and pulled her head down to kiss her again. Her lips parted, and she was suddenly kissing him back with an unrestrained lust that he had never dreamed of before. He had nearly managed to forget _why_ he was kissing her—really, did it matter?—when she rolled off of him and lay in the grass, cradling her head.

"Oooh," Kyrie moaned. "My head… my _head!_" Rorek was equal parts delighted that this was _her_ voice, disappointed that she had stopped kissing him, and determined not to look. It would probably be another unbelievable miracle, like one's fiancée going mysteriously missing and then showing up only to start floating and radiating light like some kind of goddess, then attacking him, and finally returning to herself because he kissed her. He didn't think that he could handle anything more today.

"Rorek, my _hair!_"

Oh. Well. If Kyrie was saying his name like that—as though even after what she just did, _he_ was _her_ protector—who was he to refuse?

The first thing he took in with his reluctant glance was that she was _crying_. The last time he had seen her cry was when he had just come back from fighting Malchior, and the townspeople were threatening to stone her if she didn't heal him. Said villagers had decided to take an extended vacation several countries away after Rorek woke up. He denied any involvement.

So, Rorek's first reaction was to go find who or what was making Kyrie cry and reduce it to shreds. In fact, he was considering how best to do just that when he noticed that Kyrie was starting at the ends of her hair. He looked closer, and realized with a sudden chill that they had turned black.

Slowly, confirming a truth that she already knew but was desperate to deny, Kyrie held out her right hand, palm facing upwards. She summoned a ball of light—one of the simplest tricks a mage learned—and cried out. Her magic, formerly the purest white, had become a glowing darkness flecked with sparks of light.

"Oh, Malchior," she whispered as they both stared at her hand. "What have you done?"

* * *

I was going to try to have Rorek angry at Kyrie (or at least more upset), but a) I have enough issues writing romance as it is, I don't need to be making it any harder for myself by adding more drama, and b) he just wouldn't cooperate.

Need I even ask::sighs:: Review.


	8. Two for Tragedy

**A/N: **Aww, I feel loved. It's always nice hearing your work praised.

Okay, good news is, I am going to be sure that I manage to post everything by Monday, because that's when rehearsals for my dance concert start and between practicing and just generally stressing out about it I won't have much spare time. Chapters are probably going to get somewhat shorter from here on-- sorry!

Bad news is that I don't own Two for Tragedy, Wishmaster, or Nightwish. Sad, I know. (There actually is a reason I chose this song, but it's a little complicated and would probably give something away.)

* * *

**Two for Tragedy**

Malchior had, as Kyrie well knew, gone ahead and used what little of Kyrie's power he had been able to steal to summon Trigon. The resulting surge of magic had exploded through every available channel, including the link between Kyrie and Malchior, and the opportunistic dragon had wasted no time in utilizing the unexpected gift. However, he overestimated his own strength and underestimated Trigon's: a fatal error.

Kyrie gasped as the full import of the situation struck her. She pushed away Rorek's hands impatiently, catching a last glimpse of her own hair and feeling her heart sink in response. Trigon had possessed her—or at least influenced her—_though_ her bond with Malchior. So that meant that Malchior…

"Gods damn it all!" she exclaimed, jumping up. She wobbled a bit, and Rorek steadied her from behind.

"Kyrie, what in all hells is going _on?_" he demanded, sounding understandably frustrated.

"Rorek, love, I can't explain now—Malchior's been possessed by Trigon—yes, that's what he needed me for—don't look like that! All that matters is that he couldn't control him, and we have to—"

"No, we don't," Rorek said angrily. "The damned creature got himself into this mess, he can get himself out, and we're better off if he can't!"

"Have you listened to a word I've said?" Kyrie cried. "He's not just a danger to himself! You're going to let Trigon the Terrible run around with all the power and strength of a dragon? What are you _thinking?_"

"That he could hardly use it any worse than Malchior has," Rorek snapped.

Kyrie opened her mouth to retort, and promptly burst into tears. The harsh set of Rorek's mouth softened, and he said, "Oh, Kyrie, I'm not angry with _you_. Don't cry…"

She made a strangled sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. "Rorek…"

She swallowed convulsively. "I'm so sorry. For everything, but more for this…"

"Wha—no!" But it was too late: Kyrie's eyes glowed, and then there was only empty air where she had stood. Rorek's arms reached out uselessly, clutching at nothing.

He stared at the spot where she had been, trying as hard as he could to absorb all the revelations of the past morning and to figure out where he should go from here. After what felt like an eternity but was actually closer to perhaps ten minutes, his musings boiled down to a set of six facts:

Kyrie was in trouble.

Malchior was somehow involved, and apparently possessed by an evil, power-hungry demon that the dragon himself had summoned.

Malchior was _definitely_ responsible for kidnapping Kyrie.

Malchior was probably going to hurt Kyrie, and she seemed to be unwilling to defend herself. (Rorek decided that it would be an exercise in pointless and _probably_ unfounded jealousy to examine the reasoning behind that point too closely.)

He loved Kyrie.

He hated Malchior.

Well, then.

Rorek thought back to when Kyrie had issued her challenge. She had turned to face the Cloudeater Mountains—the Nebulexeser Peak, in particular. Somehow, it seemed a very dragonish sort of place for a lair: remote and secluded but imposing.

He turned, looked at the mountains, and growled in a way that was faintly reminiscent of Malchior himself, though both of them would have ripped apart any poor fool who dared to suggest a similarity. He started to move.

* * *

And now I have to look over the next chapter and decide whether it warrants an "M" or not. Blech. 

I refuse to beg. I refuse to beg. I refuse to beg. But... I might grovel a bit. Review, please?


	9. Tortured Soul

**A/N:** No, no, it's not a lemon. I'm sorry if I got anyone's hopes up, but I just don't do those. I even have issues with kissing scenes. Sorry.

* * *

**Tortured Soul**

Trigon stretched luxuriously, feeling the tips of his new wings just brush the high ceiling of the cave. His current host certainly had taste, even if it had proven to be a fool in the end. Really, one simply did not summon a demon of his stature and then expect him to do whatever the idiot of a ritual-caster wanted.

A sudden noise made him turn, and he watched as the chaos sorceress fell through a portal. Interestingly, her magic was now black in color, as was her hair. Demon possession tended to bring out different traits in different people—though, to judge by the vomit-inducingly noble look in her eyes, the transformation in this case was no more than skin deep. A shame: she would have been a powerful force for evil, had he been able to turn her. This dimension was shamefully lacking in necromancers.

"Let him go!" she demanded as she got off of the floor. "Let him go, or else I'll—"

"Do what? Kill my host?" Trigon asked smoothly in Malchior's hoarse dragon-voice. The girl froze, caught by his words and the timeless, infinite hatred that shone through Malchior's eyes. He continued ruthlessly, "Why, what could you stand to profit from that? All that you would be doing is slaying the body—I can assure you that _my_ spirit is far harder to kill."

The little sorceress kept staring at him, as wide-eyed as a bird locked in the gaze of a serpent. _She really is quite fetching_, he noticed abruptly. A thought flashed across his mind, and Malchior's fangs were bared in the subsequent smile.

The motion pulled the girl out of her stupor, and for the first time, Trigon saw a delectable spark of fear mingling with her anger. Deliberately, he walked towards her, relishing the way her terror was so rapidly overcoming her fury as he drew nearer.

"Stop," but it was a plea and they both knew it. Trigon's grin widened. Now he had her backed into a wall, and he slowly transformed his stolen body back into that of a human, placing his hands on either side of her head as he did do.

"No," he said, before running his hand over her lips so gently it was simply terrifying. She could fight fire with fire, but she was rendered helpless before such warped, twisted gentility. Trigon wondered if she knew how amazingly arousing the panic in her eyes was: she seemed to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown, her breath shallow and coming in rapid bursts.

"Please, please, don't—Malchior—help me…" Her voice was barely audible. "Don't… do… this…"

He shook his head in mock regret. "I'm afraid he can't help you, my dear." His hand dropped to brush along her clavicle as he whispered, "No one can."

Without any warning, Kyrie quite simply exploded. "Don't _touch_ me!" She grabbed his hand and somehow managed to swing the dragon's human form away from her and into the wall behind her, using her own body as an axis to rotate him. Trigon was too surprised to adjust to the attack, and stone met unprepared flesh in a head-on collision. Predictably, stone won.

From the repressed depths of Kyrie's magic, she felt a cold tingle start to spread to her heart and through the rest of her body. Ice slid though her veins, a cruel mockery of the fire that had been lit in her blood just minutes past. Through suddenly numb lips and chattering teeth, Kyrie began to chant one of the first spells than any magic user learned when they entered their apprenticeship. Dear _gods,_ she hated demons' spells.

"Fretestra Picictato," she said shakily, trying to beat back the cold with the warmth of the magic that was seeping back into her body—the power that Malchior had stolen to power the ritual, the ritual that she was now undoing. "Fretestra Pic—"

"Hah!"

Kyrie didn't stop chanting, but she glanced at Trigon's face, faltering just slightly. Even as the outline of his figure blurred and shifted, even as Malchior's eyes began to glow crimson instead of black, Trigon's expression was one of unmistakable triumph. "Fool of a girl," he sneered, drawing back his hand to deliver an open-handed slap. "You will not be saved by this!"

She may have responded: she couldn't remember the next five minutes as anything more than a blur of pain and motion, and could only pray that Trigon would be gone before he succeeded in killing her.

The black had completely drained from Malchior's eyes when she had mustered the strength to look up, and it was undoubtedly the dragon that stood before her, blinking as though in a daze.

"Malchior! Are you yourself—do you feel well? Trigon had you for a long ti—what are you—"

She was cut off as the dragon threw himself at her, snarling in a way that was purely animalistic. Her head hit the wall with a painful "thud," and she slid down the rest of the way, barely conscious but aware enough to know that she should fear the look in Malchior's eyes.

There was a sudden ripping sound, and Kyrie felt the lacing of her bodice give way. Malchior threw the piece of torn fabric to the side, and Kyrie closed her eyes involuntarily as his intentions sunk in fully. Weakly, she tried to lift her arms to ward herself against the imminent attack.

It was an exercise in futility: a heavy body landed on top of her and began, without any prelude or attempt at finesse, to rip off the rest of her clothes.

Kyrie's eyes squeezed even further shut, and tears started to leak from the corners. "Please, no, _Malchior_—this is _you_, not the demon—oh, gods, nonononono…"

She was down to her shift, and her struggles were growing weaker by the second. _Help me, someone, anyone, help me._

"Monster!"

Kyrie felt Malchior's weight being torn off of her. She opened her eyes just in time to see a figure with a shock of white hair slam his fist into Malchior's jaw. "Foul, disgusting beast!"

_Rorek,_ Kyrie thought, before she was overwhelmed by darkness.

* * *

::grimaces:: I don't even particularly like this chapter, but I couldn't figure out a way to rewrite it and not have to change the entire storyline I had planned out (which involved beserker Rorek). A lot of this just felt awkward, in terms of writing and word choice, but the next chapter will be better, I promise. Actually, I may try to get it up tonight, as well. 

Oh, and if anyone happens to be interested, I also posted a Raven/Malchior oneshot. The title is "Pain", but it's not really as angsty as it sounds.


	10. Breaking Free

**A/N:** Love is Kyrie/Rorek, lust is Trigon/everyone-who-is-scared-of-him. I think. But you're welcome to interpret it however you like.

And yes, Zoi, I am going to tease you about the "cute" thing forever, becuase most of the time "cute" is one of the last words people would use to describe my writing. (To put it anecdotally: when we had a class discussion about the VA Tech shooter's "disturbing" writing, half of the kids in the class turned to look at me. It was amusing, actually.) And I'm still trying to figure out exactly what kind of mental disorder would make scaly wings and fiery breath seem attractive.

* * *

**Breaking Free**

Some time later, Kyrie's eyes flickered open, and she yawned lazily. She hadn't the faintest idea as to what had possessed her to go to sleep on the rock floor—Malchior had made up something that closely resembled a human bed for her, and he could be ridiculously adamant about her well-being. She thought it was a product of his rivalry with Rorek, in some twisted dragonish sort of way (I have your woman, and she's comfortable with me, take _that_), but she wasn't about to complain. She stretched, reaching her hands over her head and trying to puzzle out the appearance of a lovely set of bruises on her back. What could have happened—

_Oh._ Kyrie froze in mid-stretch. _No. It's not possible. A nightmare, that's all, and any minute now Malchior will ask me why I decided to freeze myself like this, and maybe he really will let me see Rorek but I'll come back and stop the summoning and then I'll be back with Rorek and I'll convince Malchior to do—oh, I don't know, _something_ to make it all right and we'll have the happy ending that all the bards' tales do—_

She was cut off in her self-delusions by a shout from somewhere over her head. Dreading what she would see, Kyrie looked up.

There was giant chunk of stone missing from the ceiling of the cavern. Sunlight streamed through the hole—how had she missed the light? It was such a contrast with the usually near-lightless cave—and, through it, she could see bolts of magic and streams of fire. She had really, _really_ hoped that she wouldn't see that when she looked up.

Muttering a long stream of colorful oaths, Kyrie cast around frantically for some way out. A sudden flash of light illuminated the entire space, and Kyrie gritted her teeth. _Nothing._ Besides the straw pallet—which she _knew_ to be useless, having helped make it herself—the cave was completely bare. Forcing back the first stirrings of panic, Kyrie ran her hand over the smooth wall, resisting the urge to punch it. She knew this was where Malchior kept the foci she needed: she had _seen_ him spirit crystals and scrolls out of the hidden compartments. For the thousandth time, Kyrie cursed whatever god it had been that had seen fit to make her a _chaos_ mage—

And froze. _Was_ she a chaos mage anymore? She had teleported to Malchior's cave, which was definitely not something any type of mage could do under normal circumstances, so…

Kyrie screamed with frustration. _Of all the days for me to go stupid_, she thought furiously, trying to recapture the sensation she had felt when sending herself to confront Malchior. At the time, the action had been unconscious, born of her anger at and fear for her friend. Now, she was finding that it was infinitely more difficult to do so consciously.

Another flash of light flooded the cavern, breaking Kyrie's concentration; this one, however, didn't fade like the first. She looked up and winced. A steady stream of fire was blazing over the hole, and it showed no sign of abating.

"Damn, damn, _damn,_" Kyrie muttered. In sheer frustration, she began to kick at the wall. "Let me _out!_"

Her efforts earned her nothing but a rather painful ache in her toe, which did nothing to improve her temper. "Let—me—out—of—here!" she yelled, punctuating each word with another (albeit less violent) blow. She didn't actually expect her tactics to accomplish anything, which was why it took some time for her to notice the miniscule fissure that had appeared in the marble.

Kyrie paused, suspiciously eyeing the crack as though it would disappear at any moment. When it remained very much stationary, she just shook her head and attacked the stone with renewed vigor.

However, the break refused to widen, and Kyrie eventually desisted. Despair and frustration having pushed her well past the point where she refrained from talking to inanimate objects simply on principle, she snapped, "Will you make up your _mind?_ Either you crack or—"

She was cut off by a slight groaning sound as the break widened.

Kyrie blinked once. Twice.

"What the…"

The movement stopped again.

After a few minutes, Kyrie groaned, hitting herself on the forehead. "Idiot!" She hadn't studied much about demon magic (no one _knew_ much about demon magic, really), but it shouldn't have been too hard to figure out. Summoning up all the anger and frustration she could muster, she glared at the wall, _willing_ it to move.

It did better: it exploded. Kyrie flinched back several steps, staring at the clouds of black dust that were rapidly dissipating in the breeze. Repressing the urge to go huddle in a corner, ignore her new powers entirely and perhaps start sucking her thumb for good measure, Kyrie took a tentative step towards the hole. When the rest of the cave didn't come crashing down on her head, she walked with slightly more confidence to the edge of the opening and looked out.

She was standing on the side of Nebulexeser Peak, probably about halfway down the slope. The mountain itself was gray and bare: somewhere below where she was standing, Kyrie could see the dark green of trees and plants, but the landscape around her was cold stone unadorned by any type of life.

She stepped out sideways and stood to one side of the hole, wobbling slightly as gravelly rock shifted underneath her feet. Regaining her balance, she looked at the incline leading to the top of the mountain. It was steep enough that if she fell, she would probably roll until she came to a halt against a tree or rock.

Or, for that matter, a cliff.

With the last thought in mind, Kyrie hesitated a moment, staring up at the distant peak. Another flash of light and the roar of a dragon decided her, though, and she started up the mountain.

As she picked her way through the rock, trying to both hurry and stick to areas that looked least likely to collapse and cause an avalanche, a thought occurred to her. _I don't even know what I can do when I get there._ Malchior was quite obviously in no condition to be dealt with by any means other than brute force, and Rorek could be… stubborn (perhaps obsessive would be a more appropriate term), especially when he thought that her safety was at stake. Not to mention that they had a long history of hatred between them that she could barely begin to understand, and interrupting even a practice duel between mages was not something to be undertaken lightly.

Well. She'd just have to cross that bridge when she came to it. But for now, Kyrie just tried to force a bit more speed out of her legs. After all, there was no point in worrying if they would probably both be dead before she got to them.

She thought about that for a minute. Somehow, it seemed distinctly _un_comforting.

* * *

Second-to-last chapter! Yay! 


	11. Fade To Black

**A/N:** Possibly overly dramatic, but I like it anyways. I don't own "Fade to Black" (a lyrics snippet from one of my favorite songs), the song Wings of Despair, or Kamelot. If I did, Ghost Opera would already be released. The album, not just the single.

::winces:: And I didn't realize until perhaps five minutes ago that Spellbound shows the final battle as taking place somewhere on an island, not a mountain. Just work with me and say that Malchior randomly decided to change that, too, okay?

* * *

**Fade To Black**

Kyrie was panting and dripping sweat by the time she was within sight of the peak. Pulling up short, she thought, _A fortress? What—where did that come from? I know it wasn't there before…_

She shrugged, and then winced as a bridge collapsed somewhere within the walls. Occasionally, she would still see flashes of light, but they seemed farther apart than they had been before. Perhaps they were both growing tired? Kyrie's brain told her it was unlikely, but she couldn't quite eradicate the burst of hope that accompanied the thought.

She moved forward again, the stubborn bit of hope making her feet move just a little faster over the rocks. Mentally, she began running through ways to end the fight.

She had just started to consider the best way to catch them both off-guard (the only halfway-possible plan she could come up with had been to restrain them both, and pray that she could calm Rorek down before he killed Malchior) when she heard it. Malchior's bellow, but there was a note of defiant triumph to it that made images of Rorek as he had been when she had to heal him before, battered and bleeding, appear in her head.

Kyrie started to run, forgetting her avalanche-related worries, forgetting everything but her destination and the fact that she had to arrive there _as soon as possible._ She stumbled, fell; she just got up and kept running, ignoring the crimson stains appearing on the skirt of her gown.

"Aldruon Enlenthra Nalthos Sola Narisnor!"

Kyrie stopped breathing. _No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no…_

He wouldn't. He _couldn't_. She needed him! How _dare_ he—

She redoubled her pace, sprinting, no longer ignoring the pain because she was now unaware of it. So absorbed was her attention in the simple mechanics of moving her legs and _not_ thinking about what she just heard that she didn't notice the way her feet were barely skimming the ground: had she noticed, it is doubtful that she would have cared.

She did take note when she had levitated herself a clear foot off the ground—she stopped bothering to mover her feet and focused all her will instead on propelling herself forwards. She was dimly aware that her mouth was open—was she screaming?—yes, yes she was, but there were no discernable words to it, even though the string of syllables had a power and cadence that seemed to defy all logic, because she had no idea what she was saying, didn't even know that she had opened her mouth was open until she realized that the wind was choking her.

She approached the castle at a speed no human foot could have approximated. Had she looked down to see her reflection in the many lakes she sped over, she might very well have not recognized herself in the wrathful goddess that she would have seen. Her eyes were alight with a fire born of desperation, and her hair was like a long, black-and-white banner caught in a stiff breeze. The air rushing past her caught at her cloak, molded her shift to her form in a way that would have earned Rorek a fair amount of competition, wizard or no wizard, had any males been around to witness it.

When Kyrie reached the outer walls of the decrepit fort, she slowed faintly. Deciding that she would figure out how to finesse this mysterious power some other time (say, when the life of her fiancé wasn't in mortal peril), she lashed out at the wall with every convoluted emotion she had in her.

To say that the thing exploded wouldn't be accurate. It _dissolved_, each individual particle breaking apart until the imposing barrier was simply a flood of liquid pouring over the ground. For some reason, Kyrie was reminded of tears.

She shook her head to dispel the morbid thoughts. "Umm… down?" she asked hesitantly, looking at the air between her feet and the earth. "… please?"

Still nothing. Mentally, she tried to imagine what Rorek would say if she just suddenly appeared, floating and telling him to stop fighting. He'd probably think it was one of Malchior's tricks—and she doubted she'd have time to convince him otherwise before he started attacking _her_. So, getting down seemed like a good idea. Kyrie tried to visualize herself landing gently on the ground, and then infused the image with as much feeling as she could.

_Thump._

"Ow…"

Well, it had sort of worked. Kyrie pushed herself off of the ground, wincing as her new bruises voiced their displeasure. "Rorek," she said, as though to remind herself that she could deal with all of this later.

Recalled to her purpose, she started walking through the citadel. Her shoes and skirts murmured against the floor, and Kyrie suddenly realized how silent the place seemed. Even her breathing, which had subsided to quiet gasps of pain whenever she held her arm a certain way, was audible in the hush. She could think of only one reason for the quiet. "No." Her denial seemed to echo, though her voice had been no more than a whisper.

She rounded a corner and froze. Lying in the center of a massive, circular scorch mark on the ground was a white book. As Kyrie stared at it, unable to believe the evidence of her eyes and at the same time unable to deny it, her mind jumped of its own volition to the first time she had asked him about the journal he kept.

"_Surely there's no need for you to write down everything you've done—I can name a hundred bards who would be delighted if you asked them to create a collection of your deeds. Actually, I believe that some are doing it anyways."_

"_This isn't a history, love. I was experimenting with a—a spell, recently, and I need a personal book to contain—er, to act as a focus. I thought that a journal would suffice, even one written after the fact, because the essence of the writer is still a part of it. The only important thing is that emotional bond, to bind the wri—to bind the… opponent."_

He had abruptly changed the subject, and Kyrie had been too disturbed to call him on it. Rorek was a positively dreadful liar; moreover, he was even worse at lying to her. She had read enough between the lines to guess at what he had really been doing, had mentally translated the incantation that was written in the page the journal was open to, and was promptly scared out of her mind. It's one thing to know that your lover's occupation could possibly result in him being locked away for centuries, but quite another to discover that he is actively trying to facilitate the process.

Now, Kyrie stared at the book. She took a tremulous step forward and found that her legs would no longer support her. She fell to her knees, tears pouring down her face and collecting in a pool on the blackened stone.

Her utter despair started to convey itself through her magic and she thought, _I don't want to be without him. I can't be without him._

She observed almost contentedly as her form began to fade into the air, thinking, _So this is what death feels like._

But she was not dying: her body stopped when it was almost completely transparent, and Kyrie had a sudden vision (which was odd, a tiny corner of her brain noted, because she really didn't have any Seeing ability at all). It was a girl with gray skin, purple hair, and a red jewel set in the center of her forehead; her eyes were dark and bone-weary from a lifetime of seeing things that no human should be forced to witness. Somehow, Kyrie knew that she would have something to do with Rorek's release, and she pushed all the qualms about the time and world to the back of her mind. _Let me awaken when she does._

Then everything faded to black.

* * *

Yay! I'm done, I'm done, I'm done... the ending was a bit rushed, but I don't care, I'm DONE! 

I have some ideas for a sequel, but it's probably going to be a while before I get around to it. I have about five trillion different oneshots jumping around in my head, and I really need to sort through them all, pick out the good ideas, sit down and actually write them. So I'm afraid you shouldn't be expecting anything anytime soon. Thank you to Tygre and Zoi for reviewing. (I get 264 hits and two reviewers. Not that I'm not exceedingly grateful to them both, but how does that work?)

Meh, I'm too happy to start complaining. Which is ridiculous, because I didn't even have to do much work, but I'll take what I can get. Wish me luck with rehearsals! (Our dance teachers always turn into these crazed, scary, harpy-ish women once we get into dress rehearsal-time. Eventually it gets to a point where you stop worrying about the performance, because there is no way that you will live long enough to see it.)


	12. semiepilogue: Darkest Light

**A/N:** Okay, originally I was thinking about writing a short-- SHORT!-- sequel, but it's... um... being stupid. And long. Very long. And getting longer every time I think about it. So I thought I would just post what I have of the first chapter here, because I think this is going to be one of those stories where I have to write out the last chapter and then go back and fix the first ones to make them fit in with the rest of the plotline before I post it. Feedback is more than welcome, and if anyone has any specific things that they want to see in the sequel (tentatively title "Darkest Light"), I'd love to hear it.

And if Zoi doesn't post something soon, I'm going to hack the database and track her down. Same goes for Tygre.

* * *

**Darkest Light (?)**

Someone was going to die.

Raven, sorceress and resident Titan recluse, had awaken to discover that some poor, suicidal soul had decided it would be an entertaining idea to paint her room pink and green. Clumps of… _things_ that were large, pink, and fluffy (she refused to dignify with the name "cushions") were scattered everywhere, and as a final touch: her mediation mirror was missing.

Several years ago, this would have been a cause for panic, not simply irritation. One tends to be protective of entryways into one's mind when one's mind itself is a portal for one of the most powerful demons in existence. Since Trigon's defeat, however, the worst that could result from the theft was that one of the idiots (namely, Cyborg or Beast Boy) could go into her head and mess with her emotions again. While a giggling Raven may be quite terrifying, it wasn't the end of the world—literally, anyways.

Just the end of her dignity. And possibly a few lives, if the morons ran into Rage—which, on the whole, might not be such a bad thing.

Raven paused in her search for the culprits. Then the mental image of her desecrated sanctuary occurred to her again, and she scowled. Death was too quick.

She turned down another hallway, still lost in her plans of torture, and ran into someone.

They both crashed to the floor, and Raven found herself staring into terrified green eyes. Her voice came out in an eerily emotionless tone. "Just who I was looking for."

Beast Boy squeaked and scrambled to get away, shrieking, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

A claw of black magic surrounded him, and Raven said icily, "You destroyed my room."

"Um… I'm very very sorry?" he asked hopefully.

Raven's eyes narrowed further. "You'll be sorrier yet." Beast Boy probably hadn't realized it, but by taking her mirror, he had guaranteed that she would have no way to release her anger except by pounding him into the ground.

"Azarath Metrion Zinthos." Beast Boy started yelping again as the claw slammed him against the walls of the Tower. She watched, rather disappointed by the display. Perhaps if she adjusted the angle of impact a bit…

Robin stuck his head around the corner before she could fulfill her intent of beating Beast Boy into a coma. "Raven, there's someone here who wants to talk to you," he said.

Cyborg's head appeared next to Robin's. "And lay off BB—we may need him sometime."

Raven unwillingly released her power, glaring at the two intruders. "For what?"

Over Beast Boy's cry of "Dude!" Robin said, "You should probably hurry—she looked pretty upset."

Raven nodded as she brushed past the other Titans. Her brow furrowed unnoticeably as she tried to remember if she should be expecting anyone. She ran through the position of the moon, the equinox, the solar patterns… nothing.

So, uninvited guest. Raven let out an imperceptible sigh. Ever since news of Trigon's defeat had spread through the underworld (the _real_ underworld), she had been the target of every jumped-up demon, monster, vampire, or other wannabe-baddie looking to make a name for itself by killing Trigon's do-gooder daughter. She could handle them—the really powerful ones couldn't be bothered to deal with a relatively quiet half-blood, especially when one of their fellows was sure to stab them in the back while they were distracted—but occasionally things would get messy. She suspected that Beast Boy's prank was intended as payback for a TV that had become collateral damage a few weeks ago.

He could deal with it, however (albeit in the most annoying and juvenile manner imaginable), and the challengers were little more than glorified nuisances overall. Lately, though… she couldn't quite put her finger on what exactly was so off about the attacks, but there was something. It was almost as though they _expected_ to lose, which was exceedingly stupid because she had no compunctions about using lethal force when necessary and they expected that. Unless…

Raven's mouth thinned in frustration. She was missing something, something big, and she didn't appreciate it in the slightest. She couldn't think of what it was, but… but… ugh. Maybe she could just ask this one. Most demons didn't even count as truly sentient, but there were a few exceptions to that rule, and vampires could be rather intelligent when they weren't desperate for blood.

"Look," she said as the doors to the Titan's common room slid back. It couldn't hurt to try, could it? "We both know you can't—"

Red and gold eyes snapped up to meet hers, and Raven gasped. Something shattered in the other room, but the two gazes remained locked. "Kyrie of the Black Flame," Raven breathed, feeling her head start to spin as a wave of memories assaulted her. She knew this woman from a book, a book that was now locked in a sealed and triple-warded chest at the foot of her bed. Kyrie of the Black Flame, Kyrie of Nole, chaos sorceress, fiancée of the famed wizard Rorek, captive of… of…

Of the _dragon_ Malchior.

That should have been easier to think about than it was, but even now, years later, his mere memory could still hurt her. She hated herself for the weakness, and had already put her friends through several very trying weeks of denial before she got over it. Now she simply accepted her folly and ignored it as best she could, but even that was proving difficult lately. Damned dragon.

"… but you are… more than human?"

Raven yanked herself back into the present in just enough time to catch the question. "More than human" was possibly the politest phrasing she had heard in her life when being asked about her parentage (at the opposite end of the spectrum was "What the hell _are_ you you little freak?"), but the idea was the same. "I'm half-demon," she said shortly. _And now for the running and screaming,_ she thought. While demons were no less reviled today than they were a thousand years ago, old practitioners of magic would be more likely to see a demon-human cross as something inimical to nature than would their more liberal contemporaries.

Kyrie surprised her by nodding thoughtfully. "Ah. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss…?"

Raven blinked. "Um, Raven." There was an awkward pause while Raven surreptitiously examined Kyrie again, wondering if maybe she had some kind of mental disorder. She was happy that Kyrie was unafraid of her, of course, but being leery of anything to do with demons was more or less standard procedure for mages. "Did you need something?" she asked, thinking that she might already know and hoping to whatever god would listen that she was wrong.

Kyrie seemed taken aback, and Raven realized that maybe her tone had been a little abrupt. "Uh, yes. You have the book?" Raven nodded, feeling her heart sink. "Then you know that I was—am—engaged to Rorek?"

Raven nodded again. She couldn't muster enough energy for any other response. Someone up there _really_ hated her.

"I was wondering if I could… presume to ask that… that you free him. I'd be glad to assist you," she added hastily, mistaking Raven's expression for apprehension of the work that would be involved, "but I don't think I could quite manage it… on… my… are you well?"

Raven thought, distantly, that she probably looked like a deer in the headlights. When she finally spoke, her words were slow and carefully measured, and they seemed to hang in the air after they were spoken. "There is… more to this request than you know."

Kyrie searched her face intently. She sighed, and then asked, "You and Rorek?" Her voice was soft and curiously resigned.

Surprised out of her reverie, Raven made a strangled sound of shock and shook her head violently. "No! Not… Rorek." The thought had never crossed her mind, really.

"But, then what…" Her eyes flew open. "_Oh!_" She sounded genuinely horrified, and Raven was equal parts touched and irritated by her concern. "He—you—but—"

As usual, irritation took precedence. "It's nothing."

"But he's—"

"_Nothing._" Raven's voice was cold and harsh, and Kyrie almost flinched, even though she could tell the venom wasn't directed at her. Raven turned towards the two doors leading into the main hallway, effectively closing the topic. "Robin?" she said, no louder than she had when she spoke to Kyrie.

Kyrie stared at her as though she had gone insane until the doors slid back to reveal four very sheepish Titans.

Raven arched an eyebrow at them. Robin said guiltily, "We, er, thought you might need backup… or something…"

She grimaced and turned back to Kyrie, who had fallen for the distraction and was trying very hard not to giggle at the exchange. "These are my teammates." Robin (who still looked distinctly remorseful, Raven noted with satisfaction) made the introductions.

When they finished, there was a pause before Beast Boy asked the question that was on everyone's mind. "So, you, uh… you were friends with this Malchior dude?"

Raven's expression remained carefully blank. Kyrie glanced at her and said cautiously, "Not exactly, but we weren't truly enemies… for the most part."

Raven cringed internally. Even without her empathy, she could all but _feel_ the disapproval radiating from her friends. They could be ridiculously overprotective when it came to her… experience with the dragon.

"Raven? Could we talk?"

She twitched slightly, but followed Robin without protest. She had a good idea of what this conversation would consist of, and she supposed it had to happen at some point. Better sooner than later.

"Can we trust her?" Robin didn't waste any time on preliminaries. "If she worked with Malchior?"

Of course, just because the conversation was inevitable, that didn't mean that she had to be nice about it. "And you worked with Slade. So?"

Robin winced. "That was a mistake, and I've already apologized. But—we're just worried about you, Raven."

She sighed. "And I'm fine, and I will be fine, and worrying about it is pointless. Is that all?"

"… Yeah." Robin didn't look happy, but that wasn't her problem, and if she hadn't read Rorek's journal herself she probably wouldn't have been as trusting of Kyrie either. As it was, she was a bit wary of the other girl, but logically she knew that it was unfair to automatically dismiss anyone who had dealings with the dragon. Unfortunately, she doubted her teammates would share her opinion. She was about to point this out to Robin when a wave of distress from Kyrie nearly bowled her over.

Raven glanced over to see Cyborg smack Beast Boy over the head and Starfire instinctively move to comfort the visibly upset Kyrie. Ignoring Robin, she walked back to the center of the room. "What did the idiot do now?" Her tone was bitingly sarcastic, but she laid a gentle hand on Kyrie's shoulder.

Beast Boy protested, "I just asked how she could still love someone who she hadn't seen in, like, forever!"

Raven's free hand curled into a fist. "Of course you did." _And I bet you'll be surprised when I pitch you through the window and into the ocean, too._

Robin followed her over in just enough time to prevent a disaster (or a euthanizing, depending one's point of view). "Where's she sleeping?" he broke in quickly.

Raven blinked. "Guest room?"

"Ah…" Beast Boy said, scratching the back of his neck guiltily. Raven's eyes narrowed to slits, and he gulped. "Me and Cy might've decided to… uh… turn them into virtual-reality rooms?"

Raven's glare expanded to encompass both Beast Boy and Cyborg. "Video games," she said flatly.

"They were for training!" Cyborg didn't even sound as though he had convinced himself, much less Raven.

"_Crash and Burn 5_?" Robin asked, obviously skeptical.

"It might explain Beast Boy's driving," Raven pointed out dryly. She sighed. "She'll stay in my room."

Everyone except Kyrie stared at her. "_What?"_ Raven routinely threatened to kill anyone who went into her bedroom without permission.

Raven shrugged, slightly put out by their reactions and already thinking of a way to pay them back. "She'll need to stay close if we're going to get Rorek out in one piece."

Raven motioned to Kyrie, and she started following Raven towards the door, a look of slight puzzlement on her face. Raven murmured, just loud enough for Kyrie to hear, "5… 4… 3… 2… 1…"

"WHAT?"

A brief smirk flashed across Raven's face before she turned back to her friends, as emotionless as ever. "Yes?"

"You're—you're—dude, are you _crazy?_ Do you remember what else is in that book?"

Raven eyed Beast Boy for a long moment. "Shockingly, yes, I do."

"Then why—"

Hmm, deliver a moral lecture when she was actually quite tired, or let them squirm? Ah, there really wasn't a comparison. She cut Beast Boy off mid-sentence. "Because. I'm going to bed now."

She glanced over her shoulder as she walked away. "And don't think I've forgotten what you did to my room."

Beast Boy squeaked and hid behind Cyborg as Raven exited. Kyrie followed her quietly. (Though Robin was sure he saw the corners of her mouth twitch upwards as she left.)

* * *

So... that's that. 

And I really, _really_ need someone to talk me out of doing a Rae/Kyr fic. Please. If you thought Pride was eerie, you have no idea what this will probably wind up looking like. ::whimpers::


End file.
